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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27379333">tell me why this has to end</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextstopparis/pseuds/nextstopparis'>nextstopparis</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Study, Established Relationship, F/F, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magic Revealed, Minor Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Non-Chronological, idek man I completely blacked out lmfao, kind of character study??? that what i went for anyway</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 18:21:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,628</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27379333</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextstopparis/pseuds/nextstopparis</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>So he whispers Arthur’s name, and it’s a whimper, a prayer, an enchantment - and with Arthur holding him like this, he wonders if maybe magic really is just cheating God out of miracles - as if he’s begging, willing something to be true:</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Please don’t stop</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>tell me why this has to end</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>so we are going to assume that aristarchus was taken seriously in btwn 310-230 BC and that the heliocentric model was known and accepted around 2 millenia b4 it actually was, all for the sake of one (1) disgustingly sweet and fluffy and romantic thought that wouldnt historically make sense otherwise, ok? great. and on that note, we are also going to ignore every other flavour of inaccuracy in this! thanks. </p><p>this is also non-chronological, so I'm sorry if all the jumps are jarring but...it was kinda the point... idk. the order of all the sections makes sense to me but, i may be slightly insane so. there's that. i hope u enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>winter (ii)</b>
</p><p>It was only a second, Merlin had only left him for a <em> second</em>, and now he wasn’t—breathing or moving or responding and no one was coming, no one could hear them and the beast—</p><p>[the beast that Morgana had <em> warned them </em> about, that he had ignored, and now Arthur—Arthur was—]</p><p>—it was gone but not without a mark, not without something that even in its death made it more alive than Arthur, its mark <em> on </em> Arthur, its bite—</p><p>[the bite that Gaius had <em> warned Uther </em> about, the beast that Gaius had begged Uther to see the significance of, the history that Uther was <em> there for </em> and so should have <em> known— </em>]</p><p>—the bite that left Arthur’s blood spilling and left him to crumble to the ground right along with Merlin’s stomach and he keeps screaming for help because how could he possibly leave Arthur again? But no one’s going to get there in time—</p><p>[time, time, time, Gaius had said that there was no hope, that this was it, that time ran out the second he was bitten—]</p><p>—but what is time when the power over life and death exists? It will be his life for Arthur's, as it should be, because Arthur <em> can’t </em> die, he can’t—</p><p>[“we haven’t done all the things we’re meant to do”— like save magic and unite the land, hug properly, kiss in the rain or engulfed by candlelight, have breakfast together, learn every chip and dent in each other]</p><p>—and he can barely say goodbye, can barely express how sacred his life is to him, really, because everything moves too fast: then it’s his mum, and then it’s Gaius, but finally it’s Nimueh and his mum is alright and Gaius is there and Arthur—</p><p>[oh, thank god, <em> Arthur</em>—]</p><p>
  <b>summer (viii)</b>
</p><p>Arthur lies, still, on Merlin’s bed. His face is as white as marble, and every once in a while his breath hitches, and gets stuck in his throat. Merlin has not been able to think since realizing that Arthur isn’t just being his lazy self, but rather that he genuinely <em> can’t wake up </em>.</p><p>They’d been spending their nights and early mornings together since last autumn, on and off, and it’d been weeks since Merlin had spent an evening eating dinner with Gaius. Weeks since he’d slept in his own bed. </p><p>Loathe as he was to leave Arthur, he never wanted to <em> miss </em> anything within reach</p><p>[him and the king knew that type of grief well]</p><p>so he’d done exactly that. He'd had dinner with Gaius, and they had fallen easily back into the dynamic he’d missed so much. Going to bed that night was lonelier and colder than he thought it would be, but it was only one night and Merlin had, somewhat, missed his bed (despite how small and hard it was compared to Arthur’s).</p><p>Before he could even blow out the candle in his room, though, someone had knocked on his door. Assuming it was Gaius, he had called for the old man to come in, only to look up and be met with startling blue eyes that were smooth around the corners: with Arthur, looking as if he was trying <em> not </em> to look sheepish, clad in his white sleep tunic and haphazardly thrown on boots (as if he’d shoved his feet in them in haste, which Merlin tried very carefully to avoid thinking about how endearing that was, before remembering that he <em> didn’t need to </em> avoid it anymore. This was his now).</p><p>A stupid grin had stretched across his face and Arthur had rolled his eyes, also with a big enough grin to call stupid, and they’d arranged themselves on his small, hard bed.</p><p>The way they sleep can only be called a horizontal hug, and every time Merlin thinks about it, his heart swells with how far he and Arthur have come. But, the point is - it had been a good night. He had Arthur in <em> his </em> bed and Arthur in his arms, and they’d fallen asleep in the intervals between kisses and whispered jokes.</p><p>And then he woke up, and Arthur didn’t. </p><p>Gaius says that someone used a slow acting poison on him, either in his food or wine. But that’s almost</p><p>[almost, almost, almost - why was nothing ever sure?]</p><p>impossible because, as he is the king, Arthur’s food is always tested before it reaches him. There’s been no report of the testers experiencing the same symptomes, which only leaves the servant that served him and every other person that came in contact with that servant from the kitchens to Arthurs room. It’s anyone’s guess, at this point and they don’t - <em> Arthur </em> doesn’t have time.</p><p>Merlin sits next to the bed, back to the window, and he systematically brushes the pad of his thumb across Arthur’s cheekbones, Arthur’s eyelids - his face is drenched in sweat. Gwen sits across from him on the opposite side of the bed, and reapplies the wet cloth to Arthur’s forehead intermittently. This wasn’t supposed to happen.</p><p>[<em>How </em>did this happen?]</p><p>He has tried every possible spell he can think of on Arthur, even the new ones; the ones they were looking at together only a few nights ago. (The king had wanted to reintroduce magic through healing first - he said it might be the best way to warm people up to it after so many years of hostility.) Nothing has worked, and he’s afraid because it feels like things are going to continue not working. </p><p>Around noon, just as the sun is about to reach its peak, Merlin’s stomach coils with a sort of anxiety and fear that he has never really felt before. It feels like an inevitabile certainty - that he will lose Arthur today. His leg starts to shake and his nails sting where he’s digging them into his palms. His breaths come out shakier every time he exhales, but for some godforsaken reason the lump in his throat seems to have blocked away the tears, too. It’s miserable, to fear the inevitable, because there’s nothing more to it. Nothing to be done or fixed or changed, just something he has to deal with. But he doesn’t know <em> how to </em> deal with it. He doesn’t know if he ever will; if he can. It’s -</p><p>Gwen looks over at him, and suddenly he needs to know. Can’t not ask. Needs to ask - </p><p>“When - when we lost Morgana,” they don’t meet eyes, but her jaw clenches and he almost takes it back; says <em> never mind </em> to deal with this hollowing feeling all on his own. But then Arthur’s breath hitches again, and he realizes that, no. He cannot be selfless.</p><p>[Has he ever been?]</p><p>“How did you - ? I mean. What - what was it - ?” He can’t bring himself to ask outright; needing to know the answer to a question he can’t even voice. He can’t bring himself to look away, to move, to so much as breathe. Arthur’s life and Merlin's barely constrained grief are like books on his head: it feels like one miniscule movement can crumble them instantly. He’s - frozen, almost. With fear. With grief.</p><p>“I haven't - I. It’s still as difficult as it was.” Gwen replies softly, her eyes - now that he’s looking - are filled with pain; wistful longing; nostalgia for a summer, years ago now, where treason was only splashes of water, and her and Morgana laid, cloud watching between giggles and kisses and intertwining fingers. She looks at Arthur, but Merlin thinks that all she sees is Morgana's black hair, wet and a stark contrast to her green eyes; Morgana’s lips, pressed against her shoulder as she stifles a laugh; Morgana’s hands, smooth as any noblewoman’s, either gripping Gwen’s own, playing with Gwen’s hair, or tracing Gwen’s jaw, Gwen’s arm, Gwen’s waist. </p><p>He knows that she’s seeing Morgana back when she was soft and happy and <em> hers</em>, and he feels sick, because this feels like something inevitable, too. Like one day, he will also have to look at someone to see someone else. </p><p>Like, one day, he won’t have Arthur right in his immediate line of sight. Like he’ll have to gaze at a stranger - because everyone’s a stranger, compared to how well he knows Arthur - to see Arthur. As if any one body could ever be his. </p><p>Merlin’s struggling to breathe. </p><p>“How can you <em> deal </em> with this?” He asks Gwen - someone in a lot more pain, and with a lot more strength and perseverance than he has ever given her credit for. He knows how desperate he sounds, how wrecked and on the verge of insanity. She barely blinks.</p><p>“How hasn’t it -” crushed your bones to dust, collapsed your organs and turned your mind into a ruin?</p><p>“I don’t - know. I just. Every day just - goes by, while I'm not paying attention and, some times, it’s better - more bearable - but some days it’s even worse. I don't have a choice. I can't just - if I spent every moment that I needed in order to mourn I - I wouldn't be a person, Merlin.” Gwen draws in a breath, and gives him a watery smile. </p><p>“I like to think about us before, though. Before everything happened. When she would still grab my wrist whenever she saw a particularly beautiful gown, or when she would start rambling about tourneys. I think about those moments a lot, actually. How her eyes looked blue with her sapphire dress, and green with her emerald ones. I think about the way she’d smile whenever I got her flowers, or hold my head whenever I cried into her shoulder.” </p><p>“Gwen -”</p><p>“I remember every single way she would kiss me, or say my name, or touch my shoulder, or hold my hand. And, sometimes - it’s enough. To just remember.” They both know she’s lying when the words fall out of her mouth, but - whether it’s because they’re both too tired or too scared to deal with the implications - neither acknowledges it. </p><p>Every moment is another grain of sand; identical in the anxiety and hope it brings, and identical in its fall. He cannot tell whether time becomes endless, or passes by too fast - he doesn’t know which one he prefers; whether it’d be better to just be done and know, or whether he’d be able and willing to endure an eternity of this simmering anxiety for the possibility that Gaius might find an antidote. </p><p>[It's really no question at all: of course he would endure endless lifetimes of this if there was a possibility that Arthur would live.]</p><p>When evening comes, the knights do as well. </p><p>They are all gathered around Merlin’s bed, Gwen is sitting in the exact same spot she was that afternoon, but Merlin has moved behind Arthur. His body - his lifeless, pale body - is propped against Merlin’s chest, head lolled on his shoulder, and it’s almost worse, like this. Merlin can feel every one of Arthur’s breaths weaken; can feel the life slowly draining away. He can see it, too.</p><p>Leon, Percival and Gwaine’s jaws are set. No one’s said a word since Leon’s admission that they haven't found the culprit - the unsaid <em> they never might </em>- and Merlin wants to yell at them, scream <em> well why aren’t you still looking? </em> but he knows it’s unfair. These are Arthur's last few hours; they deserve to be present in the final moment’s of their friend’s—and Arthur is, despite his status, their friend—life. No matter how much Merlin wants to shove them away, push them out; keep Arthur to himself—just the two of them, just one last time.</p><p>He chokes on a sob, and Gwen squeezes his hand, though her eyes have long since gone red and glassy, as well. He wishes he was strong enough to comfort her, too.</p><p>Elyan stands behind his sister with a hand on her shoulder—he probably knows what Gwen went through with Morgana; knows how wretched Arthur’s loss is—will be—too. Lancelot and Mordred stand on Merlin’s other side, and they look almost half as miserable as he feels.</p><p>They all look restless, defeated. On every quest that Merlin’s been on with them, Arthur’s knights have always been there for their king—their friend. Whenever he looked too tired, Leon would quietly step up and ease some of his responsibility. Gwaine would always bully him into a better mood. Lancelot was always calm, and Elyan was the best at keeping him from getting too lonely; too in his head. Arthur’s knights had always, in one way or another, been there for him - whether to defend him from bandits, or Morgana, or assassins, or himself. </p><p>And yet, it feels as if none of it matters at all, because they can do nothing now.</p><p>[And what does that say about Merlin himself?]</p><p>Merlin doesn’t look at any of them—incapable of looking away from Arthur, because what if the one second he looks away, Arthur stops breathing? How can he risk <em> not noticing </em> when—</p><p>He doesn’t look at Mordred, but he does think, numbly, <em> this was going to be your fault, in another time. </em> </p><p>The intent for Mordred to hear isn’t there, and so he does not, but the thought rests heavily on Merlin’s mind, and while the wave of nausea that passes over is not new, the brief flickers of regret and blinding rage are.</p><p>He tightens his arm around Arthur’s just barely rising chest and screws his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to Arthur’s temple.</p><p>He doesn’t know how he’s meant to live without this. He doesn’t know if he can.</p><p>At first, it’s anguished silence, crestfallen and tense faces, and fearing the inevitable. Then, before he can figure out what’s going on, it’s Gaius - rushing in and snapping at them to get out of the way; snapping at Merlin to stay behind the king, keep him propped up, and pinch his nose. </p><p>He can barely breathe, every moment that passes where Arthur’s swallowing the antidote is simultaneously worse and better than the last.</p><p>Nothing happens right away. At first he thinks that it didn’t work, that their last chance has amounted to nothing, but just as he’s about to move from under Arthur to kiss him desperately, just one last time, Gaius glares at him. Glares, instead of giving him the sorrowful look he did that morning - the look of outliving another generation he shouldn’t have - and so Merlin calms down. When Lancelot asks Gaius what he did, the physician just says that Arthur should be fine by morning, that <em> it was a potent poison, it’s not going to be cured in a second</em>, and that they can all rest easy.</p><p>[Oddly, Merlin’s mind jumps to that one afternoon, years ago, when he stood staring at a girl - a long lost friend - as he tried to make it as quick as possible for her. He wonders if there’s an antidote for the type of poison he was for her, too - whether it’ll be fast acting, or slow acting - or if it will always linger, rushing through her veins for the rest of her life.]</p><p>The knights leave, eventually, and Elyan manages to convince Gwen to rest - only after Gaius and Merlin reassure her that they’ll let her know, straight away, when Arthur wakes up. </p><p>Merlin doesn’t sleep (because last night he went to bed with Arthur, thinking everything was fine, too, and then Arthur didn’t wake up) and just as sunbeams start filtering through his window, lighting up his room, Arthur groans out Merlin’s name, and twists his face into his neck. </p><p>Finally, Merlin can breathe.</p><p>Even more hours pass until he fully regains consciousness, and still, he’s not completely there. The poison did a number on him, and Arthur’s movements are sluggish, his body still in pain. But he talks to Merlin without gasping or stuttering; he jokes and teases as if this is all a mild cold - as if it wasn’t Merlin’s <em> entire world </em> at stake. And while it’s annoying, and frustrating, and makes him hysterical beyond belief, he finds himself falling in love with Arthur just a little more.</p><p>Neither of them leave the bed unless strictly necessary, and by the time the sun is setting, they’ve settled into a relieved quietness. Gwen didn’t come to visit, and Merlin thinks he owes Gaius his sincerest thanks - and Gwen his sincerest apologies - for allowing him this time with Arthur, alone. </p><p>“So you were how worried for me, exactly?” Arthur asks in a scratchy, low voice. Merlin’s fingers pause momentarily in his hair before idly carding through it again.</p><p>“Not at all, really,” he tries his very best to keep his voice even and aloof, “I was rather sad someone took my opportunity, though.”</p><p>Arthur hums.</p><p>“So why does it look like you’ve been crying for half your life, then?”</p><p>“Wha - it does not! I - well, alright, but that doesn’t mean I was crying over you.” And it would almost be convincing, too, (though, maybe not really) if he hadn’t been clutching at Arthur for the entire day, or if a relieved laugh at how he <em> had Arthur back </em> wasn’t so obviously threatening to burst out of his chest every few minutes. </p><p>As if thinking the same thing, Arthur dislodges his head from under Merlin’s chin and gives him the most disbelieving look he can muster. Merlin shrugs.</p><p>“Maybe my dog died,”</p><p>“You don’t have a dog - “</p><p>“Well, fine, maybe <em> your </em> dog died -”</p><p>“He did <em> not </em> -”</p><p>“- look, the point is that I could’ve been crying over a multitude of things. The world doesn’t revolve around you, you know.” But then, in that moment, Arthur’s eyes are alight with mirth, his hair golden in the evening light, looking like the sun, looking brighter than it ever could, and Merlin thinks that well, yes. Perhaps it does. </p><p>With a snort and another disbelieving <em> sure </em>, Arthur goes to lie down again, but before he can, Merlin cups his cheek and kisses him - first on his forehead, then on his lips - because he had almost lost Arthur, and because even if he hadn’t, Arthur is the most precious thing in the world to him, and he will be damned if he doesn’t show the king that simple fact.</p><p>They’ve had better kisses - at better angles, in better places - but this one, Merlin thinks, is the one he’ll always think of in quiet moments.</p><p>
  <b>spring (vi)</b>
</p><p>Arthur kisses him in the middle of a meadow on the chilly morning of his birthday. It’s chaste, quick and a little awkward but—</p><p>[god, it’s all he’s been waiting for.]</p><p>Gwen left months ago, and Merlin knows he should be more reluctant, more wary of the <em> why'</em>s, and <em> what next'</em>s, and <em> since when'</em>s, but—</p><p>[this is<em> all he’s been waiting for</em>.]</p><p>And so they kiss, and then again and again, and Arthur’s laugh is soft, and Arthur’s face rests in a quiet happiness, and Merlin feels giddier than he ever thought possible. More than what he felt in Ealdor, more than when Arthur was crowned. This is - this is<em> everything</em>.  </p><p>Once Arthur makes Merlin set up the picnic - despite the fact that it’s <em> his </em> birthday, and shouldn’t Arthur be doing this for <em> him</em>? - and pushes him to sit down, they don’t talk about it (they’ve never talked about it - he’s starting to think that maybe they do not need to. Not about this, anyway). </p><p>For a while, they actually don’t talk about very much; nothing at all, in fact. It’s quiet and it’s peaceful, and Merlin steals glances in the intervals that Arthur is pretending he is above the act. Their hands are tangled in a mess of fingers, and although it makes the whole <em> eating food </em> aspect of a picnic more difficult, neither is willing enough to let go. </p><p>Arthur’s mother’s ring rests as a warm weight in the space between their fingers, and Merlin stares hard at it before taking a breath. </p><p>[It has been a long time coming, really. He’d been promising himself and backing out in turns.]</p><p>He is sabotaging himself</p><p>[because it’s so good, sitting with Arthur and basking in the knowledge that this is happening, and] </p><p>he knows what this will do—what this will cause</p><p>[it is going to end: the one thing he’s wanted more fiercely than all else]</p><p>and yet he will tell him anyway, because a lie is a lie, and it is no way to begin the most important thing in his life.</p><p>[Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.]</p><p>
  <b>autumn (iii)</b>
</p><p>As Samhain draws near, and folktales of ghosts and ghouls and demons start to circulate once more, personal demons start catching up with them, too. </p><p>Feeling the Earth had always been an unexplainable thing; he could never really describe properly with words how intertwined his emotions seemed to be with the elements</p><p>[it sounded silly to say how he could feel the very fabrics of the earth, deep below or just grazing the surface, vibrating with the magic of life. It was foolish to believe he had such a connection with such a thing. But—well—]</p><p>but with every fallen leaf, the weight of destiny and responsibility grows heavier on his shoulders, and starts to weigh him down. Morgana is no longer only being haunted by her dreams during the night, she is now being terrorized with their significance during the day, too. He isn’t allowed to confide in her: tell her his secret and allow her to tell him hers. He isn’t allowed to look at her and tell her that <em>it’s okay</em> <em>if you have magic or even think you do</em> or <em>I understand</em> or <em>we’ll get through it together</em> or <em>it’s Arthur he’s— he’s meant to—he’s gonna be the one to free us. Just wait, you’ll see.</em> </p><p>He can only watch in silence as her resolve to be strong and be good starts to wither faster than the plants; as she starts to let the demons that haunt her slowly lay siege to her very being, her very nature. Watching her suffer in silence, knowing exactly why, and doing nothing of it weighs heavier than anything else. Watching one of his dearest friends become the very thing she always fought and protested against numbs him from how much it hurts. He doesn’t want to listen to Gaius, doesn’t want to leave her alone, but -</p><p>but what if something goes wrong? What if someone else finds out? How could he risk it? Risk <em> everything - </em> </p><p>So he keeps his secrets, and shoulders the weight of hers, too. It’s lonely and terrifying, but maybe Morgana knowing she has at least one ally can be enough. Maybe, at least for a little while, it’ll give her enough hope to just - stay strong a little longer (and - god. How unfair is that? That they have to be strong just to be themselves). </p><p>Except that it isn’t. When he and Arthur escape the knights of Medhir, and return to Camelot to find everyone but Morgana asleep, he knows. He knows because he’s falling asleep and she isn’t, so it can’t be the magic, like she claims. He knows because Kilgharrah tells him, and what other source does he have? There’s no <em> time </em> to find another source. He knows because this wouldn’t even be out of the ordinary for Morgana, anymore: she’s capable of wanting everyone dead, she has <em> planned </em> people’s demise before. How could he risk not thinking she’s in on it? How could he risk telling her and exposing himself, when it’s more than likely she will use it against him, use it against Camelot. How can he risk Gaius and Arthur and Gwen? </p><p>[God, how could she do this to <em> Gwen?</em>]</p><p>So he heeds Kilgharrah’s advice - what other choice does he have? - and Morgana’s eyes only widen with fear and betrayal and he can’t swallow the lump in his throat - maybe he accidentally drank some poison himself; maybe giving it and taking it are the same thing - but he doesn’t know <em> what else he was supposed to do</em>. He’s sorry and his head is spinning and he can’t stop the tears leaking out of his eyes, and he <em> knows </em> this won’t turn out well; he <em> knows </em> he just poisoned someone who trusted him and that he’s in the wrong but - god. He can’t help hating Morgana just a little for doing this, can’t help hating himself for even thinking about it. Morgause comes and takes her, and Merlin can only hope she will save Morgana. But with the knights gone, and Arthur back - a little sweaty, a little bruised - Merlin can’t hold back the guilt of his bittersweet relief. </p><p>They don’t hug, or really do anything of the sort, but Merlin stays with him into the darkest hours of the night, clutches his arm the second he has any excuse, and Arthur doesn’t comment on it once. He wonders if this is something that they will ever acknowledge - this thing between them - or whether it’s even worth acknowledging to Arthur. </p><p>[It’s the only thing helping Merlin breathe and not smell phantom smoke, sometimes]</p><p>Arthur’s safety and the constant mantra of <em> I did what I had to do, there was no choice, she was going to kill everyone </em> are the only things that make the guilt manageable. </p><p>But then, one day, a few weeks after the dragon’s attack and at least a few months after her disappearance, the inevitability of it hits him, like running head first into a brick wall. </p><p>[He thinks that it wasn’t really inevitable at all.]</p><p>
  <b>summer (i)</b>
</p><p>Strands of sunlight trickle through the trees and blanket everything in liquid gold. Warmth like this has been scarce in the last uncountable months, hiding and fallen prey to the sharp, stinging edge of winter’s knife. The dull, worn blue that had once painted the town is now fuller, rejuvenated in the light. Splashes of water wash out any traces of past concerns regarding food and grain, and bellowed laughter drowns out the old, lingering anxieties of health and destiny. </p><p>It’s the one day he gets off. The one where he’s allowed to be away and do whatever he wants; sleep until whenever he wants. Yet still, he finds himself in the same company, maintaining the same routine, keeping the same dynamic as any time before. It’s only the four of them—it has only really been the four of them since he arrived. Morgana and Gwen have teamed up with him against Arthur, who hasn’t stopped complaining of betrayal and treasonous manservants every breath between head-dunks he gets. Despite his disadvantage of three against one, though, he is a trained knight, and so the attack against him takes a lot more effort, with a lot less reward, than any of the three of them would care to admit.</p><p>It takes about ten minutes to <em> properly </em> best him, without any of that slippery crap he kept pulling - pretending he’d been compromised only to catch them off guard - and when Arthur finally resurfaces from the water and surrenders, scowling, Merlin’s a little breathless. It’s definitely the physical exertion that he’s unused to, and not anything else</p><p>[like the light, pink flush on Arthurs cheeks, or how blue his eyes are, or his wet hair sticking to his head, or the water drops caressing every bone on his face, every crevice in his body, and Merlin envying them for whatever reason. No, no. It's not that] </p><p>at all. He’s not sure he has enough breath in his chest for another go, but Morgana and Gwen restart their efforts anyway, and he has no choice but to join them, again. How could he pass it up - an opportunity to tease and touch and have fun with his prince, with no repercussions or boundaries?</p><p>It’s the best time he’s had in—well. Quite some time, really. </p><p>Once the second attack is over with—another loss for Arthur, Merlin thinks happily—they’ve exerted themselves until laughter is the only thing filling the space between heaving breaths. </p><p>Through the hazy, sweet fatigue that comes with a warm noon and physical activity, they crawl out of the water, collapsing on the grassy ground, and look up at the canopy of the clear blue sky. The colour, Merlin thinks, remembering the way Arthur rubbed his eyes before opening them, having just emerged from the water, is familiar. </p><p>Morgana and Gwen clasp hands as they lie down next to each other, and Morgana’s cheek rests on Gwen’s shoulder as they break away from Merlin and Arthur. They start talking in sweet and quiet tones to one another, giggling every now and again. He can’t hear what they’re talking about, but Gwen looks at her lady every once in a while, her lips stretching in a soft, barely there smile, and he thinks that maybe it doesn’t really matter, anyway. </p><p>Merlin looks at their easy closeness and let’s himself envy it, wondering how long it took for them to be so comfortable around each other; around other people while together. They touch and speak as if no one else is there: the few times Merlin had accompanied them to the lower towns, he’d seen them whisper and and cling to each other as if the road wasn’t boistering with noise and filled with people. </p><p>Somehow, he thought longingly, they managed to turn any place intimate for them alone; like they found, and keep finding, an undisturbed sanctuary within each other, and he—wants that. </p><p>Arthur, on the other hand, is a prat of the highest order, and one day Merlin’s going to let that one flaw overshadow every single one of his virtues </p><p>[like how he always fights to defend, or how the lives of an entire kingdom are always his main concern—this twenty year old man, gladly bearing the responsibility of hundreds of lives—or how <em> good </em>he is; kind and just and only trying to do the best with what people give him]</p><p>but, he lets out a quiet and resigned sigh, today is not that day. And so he watches Gwen and Morgana, lost in the daydream of trying to picture himself and Arthur like that: giggling while they rest their heads together and intertwine their fingers. A moment later he turns back to the prince in question, whose face is tilted towards the sun while a small smile dances on his lips, and makes the executive decision to do something about this longing. Maybe they’ll never be as close as Morgana and Gwen are, maybe never in the same way, but at least this is somewhere he can start. </p><p>It’s bold, and perhaps a little rash, and not nearly the extent of what he wants to do </p><p>[like turn and bury his face in Arthurs neck, kiss the corner of his mouth and nudge his lips into a wider smile, throw his arm around Arthur’s waist and kiss the gold of his hair, his cheek, his nose]</p><p>but it’s enough. He brushes the back of his hand against Arthur’s and hooks their pinky fingers together. For a second, the prince doesn’t move and Merlin wonders if he’s trying to find a way to let him down, or if he’s even awake. But then, suddenly, his finger is being squeezed back, and Arthur’s eyes still rest on the scarce, passing clouds, but his smile is gentler, more content. As if this is how his face is always meant to look while it’s at rest. </p><p>Merlin’s heart flutters in his chest, and he wonders how anyone can ever be worthy of a feeling this sweet. This all-encompassing joy that's threatening to tear his heart apart with how full it makes him. It’s unfamiliar, perhaps, but welcome.</p><p>The entire day is probably the happiest he’s ever been, and Merlin tries to memorize it: the shine in Gwen’s and Morgana’s and Arthur’s eyes that put the shimmering of the sunbeams on water to shame; the warmth of the sun bearing down on them; the sound of laughter and water splashing and Arthur sputtering; every vibrant colour threatening to engulf and blind him to everything else. He tries to learn every single detail of how his friends—and they are, despite Arthur’s general prattishness and his and Morgana’s status, friends—interact and exist. But it’s almost too much, too brilliant and bright and sublime to be contained within a memory. </p><p>[A lifetime passes in between every second, and by the end of the day, fulfillment has settled as a warm weight in his belly. He might not remember every detail, but he’s sure he’ll never forget the feeling; it’s an acceptable substitution.]</p><p>
  <b>autumn (vii)</b>
</p><p>It - hasn’t been the easiest of months.</p><p>Arthur barely talked to him at all, at first—never saying what his eyes reflected: the anger and pain that came with betrayal and treasonous manservants. An anger and pain that he knew, at that point, all too well. Merlin had been surprised at first, when Arthur accepted his outright refusal to leave Camelot and his job with nothing more than a clenched jaw and cold eyes. It had - rightfully - given him hope: perhaps if Arthur wasn’t too adamant to get him as far away as possible, they still had a chance to fix this - this thing.</p><p>This thing that hasn’t gone anywhere since that fateful afternoon on his birthday. This thing that has been everything he has ever wanted. This thing that keeps tearing him apart and restitching the wound in turns. </p><p>Sometimes he thinks that it would be okay if Arthur decided to never touch him the way he used to, again, if only he could just <em> look </em> at him. Look at him differently - see the same things but more. </p><p>Other times he lets himself recognize that, no. </p><p>No, that wouldn’t be enough at all. </p><p>[Now that Merlin has held Arthur’s hand with a clear intent, now that Merlin has tasted his lips, nothing less will ever be enough.] </p><p>Gwen had returned a month or so after him and Arthur started speaking again. And it is so nice, finally having her back: she was his first friend, his best friend, the most reasonable and kind person he’s ever known. So, since Arthur already knew, he told Gwen about his magic, too. </p><p>They were sitting on one of Gaius’ benches, and she clutched his arm before pulling him into a hug and rubbing his back. Gwen murmured sweet words of comfort and wiped his tears away, and held him every time the tears would start up again. They sat together, speaking for hours, before Gaius returned, and Merlin felt lighter than he had been since spring. </p><p>When Gwen stepped outside to leave, she gave him one last warm look - she’d been reassuring and thanking him so much he was sure his face was still red - and promised to try and speak to Arthur. Merlin almost told her not to bother, letting the anger and pain consume him for a second. Gwen had accepted his magic as quickly as he’d told her, so why couldn’t Arthur? It wasn’t any different, and maybe this was a sign that - that they - </p><p>But, no.</p><p>No. Gwen hadn’t been raised to hate magic. She hadn’t been indoctrinated by her father to hate it more than anything else. She wasn’t raised as a weapon - instead of a person - to be used specifically against it. Of course it wasn’t the same thing. </p><p>So Merlin had given her a watery smile and thanked her as she walked away. He had wondered if it would be enough. </p><p>It was. Arthur came back to him slowly, cautiously, four days after Merlin’s talk with Gwen. Merlin was allowed to polish his armor again, and after a few weeks, Arthur regifted him the key to his chambers. </p><p>[“You’ve always barged in like you’re entitled, anyway.” He’d bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood, and jerked his head in a nod, murmuring a ‘thank you, sire’ just before getting back to work.]</p><p>The banter came back, too. Stilted and awkward at first, falling flat and making the air around them go cold sometimes, but it was back. And even that would work itself out, eventually. </p><p>They were relearning each other, in every way, and this time completely. </p><p>Arthur and Gwen never rekindled what they briefly had before, and oddly enough - it scared Merlin. Scares him, still. They had been engaged to be <em> married</em>, and yet upon her return, they barely touched. Yes, they are still friends - closer than he and Arthur are most times - but. From lovers willing to break the status quo to only friends is - terrifying. Him and Arthur hadn’t been even close to being what Arthur and Gwen were. What was stopping them from being reduced to only <em> friends</em>? What if the reason this <em> thing </em> between them hasn’t progressed is because Arthur doesn’t want him anymore? </p><p>The anxiety eats away at him until he can no longer help it. He doesn't <em> want </em> Arthur as a friend, he just - he can’t. It would hurt too much. </p><p>And so, despite the fact that they are only just past the stage of being comfortable with banter again, Merlin brings it up. </p><p>“What on - of course Gwen and I aren’t going to marry. Merlin, what - ”</p><p>“But <em> why</em>, Arthur?”</p><p>“Well, because - I mean, it was a mutual understanding that we - she and Morgana, and me with yo - you idiot how could you - you<em> must </em> know,” Arthur sounds as if he’s pleading, and Merlin’s hands stutter where they scrub at the cold armour in his palms.</p><p>“How - how could you <em> not know</em>?” </p><p>“Because you don’t look at me long enough to <em> smile </em>at me, you prat! I don’t know what - do you not - ?” He knows the fear in his voice is palpable, that Arthur can hear the break. He knows his eyes are watering.</p><p>“Of course I do, I - the only <em> reason </em> that I - it’s because of -”</p><p>“My magic.” And the way Arthur flinches is wretched; reminiscent of all those times Merlin was cleaning a wound of his from some bandit attack or other; like he’s physically tormented by it. Merlin clenches his jaw, and takes a shaky breath. They need to do this, he reminds himself. They need to or else nothing will get fixed. </p><p>“This isn’t going to work.”</p><p>“What? No, of - of course it is, we just need to -”</p><p>“No, it isn’t. This who<em> I am</em>, Arthur. You can’t just conveniently ignore it because it doesn’t - because it doesn’t suit you!”</p><p>“<em>Suit me</em>? You’re a bloody sorcerer! You - for <em> years </em> you’ve been - I trusted <em> you</em>!” </p><p>“And how could I not? Hmm? Tell me, <em> Sire</em>, with a sorcerer getting their head chopped off every second week, or their skin scorched to the bone until there was nothing left but ashes -”</p><p>“You thought I’d - ?” and the thing is that, no. Merlin never actually thought Arthur would kill him. Sorcerers were still facing execution, but it was months in between each, now. And, besides, it’s never been death that scares him numb, anyway. He risks his life every day in a multitude of ways, regardless. No. It has always been the fear of being sent away; of being exiled and rejected and never smiled at or joked with again by Arthur. The fear of losing Arthur has always been the most paralyzing, not losing his life. But that’s not <em> the point</em>. The point is that it <em> should </em> be his life, and Arthur should <em> know </em> -</p><p>“ - <em> how could I not </em> lie to you?” Arthur looks away from him, then, and Merlin knows he understands.</p><p>[Perhaps he understood the whole time]</p><p>A moment passes, then:</p><p>“Look,” he says, voice now gentler, and dares to approach his king. “I know - I know this is going to take some - some getting used to. I know I could have told you sooner but everything just kept - and every time I use it, I do so to protect you but - but I just wanted to show you how simple and - and good it could be. Not just what type of weapon it could be used as and - I mean,” Arthur still isn’t looking at him, and Merlin doesn’t know what to do. </p><p>“Arthur? I can - I can show you now. Please - <em> please</em>, just - just let me show you - ”</p><p>“It’s not that.” Merlin’s mouth snaps shut, his brain unable to process the words, because what is he supposed to get from that?</p><p>“I don’t - I don’t understand…”</p><p>“I mean, yes, it was. For a little bit, it was only the magic but. But it’s not anymore it’s - everything else. Look,” he shakes his head, signalling Merlin to stay quiet. “I know why you didn’t tell me. You were probably right not to but - but that doesn’t change anything. It - hurts. Still. I - I thought we - that I knew you."</p><p>“I’m still the same person,” and perhaps it’s risky, to, of all moments, now ignore every small technicality that separates him from his king. </p><p>“Well then I thought I knew a person who would never lie to me. And you did, and I know why and I understand why but <em> it still hurts</em>. Everyone has <em> lied </em> and you were supposed to be the one person who never would - who wouldn’t <em> have </em> anything to lie about and - I just. I just want one person who won’t lie to me. Why does <em> everyone - </em>?”</p><p>Merlin’s heart is breaking right in front of him, and he can’t even get close enough to hold it in his hands. </p><p>“Arthur - “</p><p>“Everything I've done, was <em> any </em> of it - ? Was it even me? What kind of a king am I if I can’t even function without - without a sorcerer looking over my shoulder?” Arthur’s hands are clutching his hair, now, and Merlin can stand alone no longer. </p><p>He takes Arthur’s wrists the second he reaches him, gently prying his fingers away from his scalp. Arthur’s doubt in himself isn’t new, but it hurts just the same: knowing Merlin has only fueled it. Watching Arthur struggle with his validity as a king is almost like a cruel joke. It <em> is </em> a cruel joke: to give someone something to desire; to give them a destiny so great, and yet make them feel inadequate at it.</p><p>Arthur puts Camelot above everything else. His top priority has always been whatever’s the best for Camelot, and it’s unbearable, seeing how much he cares for something he feels so unworthy of. </p><p>[Merlin knows the feeling]</p><p>“Arthur, <em> please</em>,” -- take care of yourself, stop selling yourself so short, look at me the way you used to --</p><p>“Why are you even here? Why would you continue to - you never once sought any credit, so why would you stay? Do you - is that what this is? You want compensation now?” and the words are cruel; they tear him apart from the inside out because <em> how can he not know</em>? </p><p>But his voice is soft - might’ve been shaking, if Arthur was anyone else - and his eyes are screwed shut, and Merlin thinks he might understand.</p><p>“I do it for you.” </p><p>And when Arthur shakes his head slightly, disbelievingly, in reply, Merlin is certain. </p><p>[Arthur knows the feeling, too. But apparently it isn’t only reserved for Camelot.]</p><p>
  <b>spring (iv)</b>
</p><p>The crackling fire drowns out the quiet sound of their chuckling friends—and they are, despite the social class and situation, friends—making everything else white noise. The early days of Camelot’s springs had always been merciless; the cold of the winter that ripped its way through the town and left horror in its wake has never just mended overnight, but this year it’s amplified still by Morgana’s betrayal. There's a heavy quiet that falls every time someone runs out of a joke or story to tell, and Merlin feels as though he’s drowning all over again in <em> what if</em>’s, <em> maybe</em>’s, and numbing regrets. </p><p>They all, in one form or other (besides Gwaine and Percival, perhaps) have to fight their own Morgana-shaped shadows and demons, but he suspects that Arthur’s burden rests more crushingly than everyone else’s. After all, it isn’t only Morgana usurping the throne that he has to deal with. It’s Uther and his lies, and Camelot and all the responsibility that comes with her, too.  </p><p>[Merlin, at least, can sometimes ignore his destiny. He can even find solace in it, sometimes. But Arthur - well. He doesn’t think Arthur has the same luxury. Arthur doesn’t know how his reign will end, doesn’t know whether anything will be worth all of this grief. He can’t dream of a golden age knowing it’s a future - however distant - rather than a wishful thought; not like Merlin can.]</p><p>The prince hasn’t spoken much. He hasn’t really been doing anything, much. He's quiet and simmering in an anger and a pain unknown to him before, and it’s all Merlin can do to not fold him into himself and whisper promises of destiny and eventual peace.</p><p>[It’s still odd, how the once troublesome thing is the thing he’d use for comfort.]</p><p>Arthur had walked away a few moments ago, and it’s been quieter since. It’s obvious that he’s the only reason everyone is keeping up the facade of being okay; when he’s not there, there is no point. He’s their prince, the one they’d follow into any battle, through any condition. He has given them leadership, hope and strength - even when he doesn’t seem to have much of it himself - and so a fleeting sense of contentment and unabashed loyalty is the least they could repay him. </p><p>Merlin shoulders the quiet weight of what happened with Morgana alone</p><p>[Gaius knows, but Merlin doesn’t think he understands - not completely, anyway]</p><p>but he knows it’ll be snowflakes compared to what’s to come: rebuilding Camelot, rebuilding trust, rebuilding normalcy and the feeling of being okay.</p><p>He sees how hurt Gwen and Leon and Gaius are, how hurt Arthur is. He knows what Morgana means to them, how deep her betrayal cuts. He can’t look at Gwen - strong, kind, lovely Gwen - without remembering that one summer, where she looked at Morgana with such reverence it was as if Morgana were the most holy treasure; where Morgana held and clutched her as if she was the same. He can’t look at Gwen without feeling his heart break over and over again, without having to constantly push back the tears, the lump in his throat, the pain he feels for his best friend. </p><p>To think that she - they - will move on without any emotional scars is - idealistic. Impossible. Morgana is everywhere; her presence will be all over the castle, all over anyone who knew her, and every reminder of her is a reminder of her lies; more salt rubbed into a gaping wound. The consequences of the secrets he kept from her, and her secrets from everyone else are - everywhere. They make his skin crawl and his stomach roll until he can think of nothing but the fact that he has to tell Arthur, he <em> has </em> to, because now that Morgana is gone, Uther will probably blame it on the magic, and Arthur won’t know any better. He’s already so blinded by the betrayal, and so Merlin has to tell him. Now, before it’s too—</p><p>[it’s been too late for a long time now.]</p><p>It’s all too much. He knows this is the price he must pay for what he did to her; this never ending feeling of wanting to scream, to cry, to collapse and never get up, to puke everything out, to hollow out his organs and bones and plunge himself into a lake - drown out the noises, the demons; wash out every speck of blood on his hands and mind; cleanse his thoughts and start fresh. But he doesn’t know how to handle it. He doesn’t know how <em> anyone </em> is supposed to handle this -</p><p>Later, him and Arthur sit together, taking watch while everyone else is asleep. The firelight sets Arthur’s face aglow, melting the rigid cold that's freezing his posture, and Merlin loves him. It’s a guilty thought that passes through Merlin’s mind: how ethereal and achingly golden Arthur is, like this - bathed in firelight. Golden and soft and sadder than Merlin has ever seen him. The thought runs through his veins and envelops his mind, usurping his thoughts and silencing anything that isn’t <em> Arthur</em>.</p><p>[It’s almost like being baptized by fire.]</p><p>The prince’s shoulders slump when they’re alone together, and his lips lose the forced quirk they had throughout the night, and Merlin does not know how to fix him.</p><p>[He’ll spend forever trying, though.]</p><p>
  <b>autumn (ix)</b>
</p><p>A fortnight before his birthday, a band of sorcerers raid Camelot and attempt to murder Arthur. They don't move like they have much of a plan besides the usual inside man and using sheer force to achieve their ends, but it’s still enough to get them all the way to the king. </p><p>Arthur’s holding a meeting at the round table, Merlin sitting on his left and dozing off as Leon gives reports of grain and other things he is not paying attention to. It’s just another day, so of course no one expects it - least of all Merlin - when the doors slam open, and half a dozen sorcerers spill in. The knights are quick to draw their swords, but the magic is quicker in disarming them and throwing them back.</p><p>Merlin’s just about to get up - put an end to this - when a blinding pain erupts through his head, spreading to his neck and shoulders. The serving boy behind him is, apparently, the inside man. The searing pain is enough to take his breath and immobilize him, but not enough to knock him out.</p><p>He can’t get up - can’t <em> think</em>. All he can do is watch the six sorcerers wave the serving boy away as they approach him and Arthur. They haven’t done anything to the king besides use a freezing spell on him, but he is the only one they’re keeping their eye on as they approach.</p><p>“I have been waiting a long time for this, Arthur Pendragon.” the one who speaks is physically larger than the rest. His cloak is black, and his head is without hair and Merlin - is <em> tired. </em> He's tired because this isn’t even the first time magic users have taken advantage of the new laws to use them against Arthur. This isn't the first time Arthur’s been bound and gagged and held frozen by invisible forces. This isn’t the first time his nose and ear have started to bleed, It’s not the first time for <em> any of this</em>, and he knows - resignedly - that it also won’t be the last. </p><p>The man then turns towards Merlin:</p><p>“We must thank you, Emrys. Magic is welcomed again, without any effort on our part. Now, all that’s left is this: we must make sure no other Pendragon sits on a throne again,” he says, voice low and grating - as if it’s that <em> simple</em>. As if any of this can be summed up by who’s on the throne or not. As if they have <em> any idea </em> who Arthur is, to describe him as nothing more than his father’s son and Morgana’s brother.</p><p><em> You don’t even know</em>, he thinks, once he’s regained enough strength to get up. They don’t know how Arthur spent months and months - alone and with council - finalizing the laws so that they were fair, so that no one was harmed; so that no one felt like it was a <em> trap</em>. They didn’t see him sleep less than five hours a night for <em> months</em>, without ever shirking any of his other duties - how dark the skin was under his eyes from all the exhaustion, all the stress. </p><p>They didn’t see him go to the druids under the cloak of the night, with no title or status, just as a pupil because <em> if I'm to do this properly, I need to educate myself </em> Mer<em>lin, so are you coming or not? </em> </p><p>How could they <em> possibly </em> know everything Arthur is? Every beautiful complexity tangled in seven more. How he’s always an arrogant prat with a temper and impatience that will be the death of him. How he’s always more willing to hit things with a sword than talk them out - how he’s still learning that he’s <em> allowed </em> to talk them out. How he feels emotions in every extreme. How he’s insecure and stubborn and mean and never, ever cruel, not like his father was and not like his sister has become. They don’t know how he always apologizes when he works through his emotions, how he’s actively learning to stop letting them get the best of him. They don’t know how he only feels so much because he <em> cares </em> more than almost everyone Merlin knows. They don’t know that with every bout of anger there’s a stronger show of love, of compassion. </p><p>[They don’t know that he never lets Merlin feel alone in his fear, that he’s always ready to admit his own.] </p><p>But of course they don’t. They’re not the ones who watch him struggle with choosing something he’s only just learned over the only thing he’s ever known his whole life. They’re not the ones who see, every day, how he chooses the right thing, with a little help and without fail. They didn’t see him weep the night he sent his father’s spirit back - his last memory of his father being of him being angry and disappointed in everything he has accomplished and been proud of. They didn’t see him double over, once Uther was gone, and gasp for breath as the full weight of the knowledge that <em> his father tried to kill him </em> rested on his shoulders. </p><p>They’re not the ones that Arthur holds and kisses, nor the ones with the privilege to hold and kiss him back. No one knows Arthur the way Merlin does, and sometimes he’s viciously glad; protective over anything of Arthur’s that is also just Merlin’s own. But, sometimes, he almost feels bad for anyone who doesn’t. He almost feels bad for Arthur, because Arthur is brilliant in his entirety. He's softer than the firelight in Merlin’s palm and more golden than any glinting metal or sunbeam on grass. He's kind and humble and so very dear. The kind of brilliance that deserves endless admiration for all its facets, by everyone.</p><p><em> You don’t know how important he is. </em> He thinks again, as anger is slowly accumulating to power - magic that spills out of his fingertips and swirls in his eyes. <em> You will never know</em>. </p><p>[But, as he neutralizes them with a single blink, watching their eyes widen with fear and shock, he thinks maybe now they have an idea.]</p><p>Later, once he has calmed down enough for his eyes to be blue again, he clings to Arthur. His grip gets tighter every time Arthur tries to pull away because - he can't. He can’t let go of this yet. He <em> needs </em> to hold Arthur, to just remind himself that he <em> has this</em>; that this is his and it’s not going anywhere. </p><p>The king indulges him - as if Merlin gives him much of a choice - and whispers little assurances between idle complaints of <em> people are more scared of you than me, how’s that fair? </em> and <em> I’m serious, </em> Mer<em>lin, I'm the king, I should have more sway than you do! </em></p><p>[If only Arthur would believe how much he was loved; if only he knew the lengths everyone would go to, if only he asked]</p><p>He is just so, so incredibly tired. They both are. It has been over a year since Arthur repealed the ban. A year of integrating magic slowly, of learning how to be just while passing judgement, of revising and repenting and proving over and over again that this is real, that it isn’t a trap. An entire year of the prophecy having been fulfilled, and still, he has to deal with this shit.</p><p>It would almost be hilarious, if he wasn’t on edge every single day of his life. He'd thought - naively, perhaps - that most of the attempts on Arthur’s life would end with the law. That people would see he is not his father, that they would leave him alone. Evidently, this is not the case.</p><p>Morgana had gone quiet the first few months after the repeal, but she is back in full force. He does not understand it (but, then again, he’d given up on understanding Morgana ever since Gwen had told him, years ago, with a hushed tone and trembling hands, how Morgana had smiled while the guards dragged her to the dungeons). </p><p>Every single week, there’s another attempt. They’ve gotten worse, too: most of them are by sorcerers, and powerful ones. Merlin’s magic can handle it but it’s - draining. He has never battled such powerful magic so consistently, and it tires him. He also has other responsibilities, now, so he can’t accompany Arthur on expeditions all the time, which makes him all the more anxious.</p><p>Assassins no longer try to be discrete. If Arthur were to go out one day, without Merlin there, and one of the sorcerers decided to attack, he would not make it back. If <em> Morgana - </em></p><p>“<em>Merlin</em>. Shut up.” Arthur squeezes his waist with the arm he has around it. Merlin’s forehead is pressed against the kings shoulder, and Arthur’s other hand is a warm, reassuring weight against the nape of his neck.</p><p>“I didn’t even say anything,” he mumbles, rubbing the side of his face against Arthur’s tunic, trying to wipe away the wayward tears.</p><p>“Didn’t have to.” and what a lovely answer is that? How he doesn’t have to say for Arthur to know. How Arthur just does, because this is them. This has been them for years, now: without any secrets and without any illusions and without any uncertainties. He does know Arthur better than anyone, but sometimes he forgets that Arthur knows <em> him </em> better than anyone else, too. </p><p>And it’s so nice, being known so well - by anyone, but especially by the person he had <em> wanted </em> to know him so thoroughly - that he only starts crying more.  </p><p>Because what if Merlin isn’t there the next time <em> half a dozen </em>sorcerers attack? What if he has to go to bed one day, alone, knowing it’ll be empty for the rest of his life? What if, one day, he’ll have to go back to that hell of hiding, of not being able to be - completely and utterly - himself? What if there will come a day where memory will be his only solace, and not these calloused hands that hold him together now?</p><p>The ban, fulfilling the prophecy, all of it was meant to be the end. Saving Arthur was only meant to be necessary until he brought magic back, united Albion. The risk of losing Arthur was meant to go away by now but, still, it remains - gets worse, even, and it’s <em> not fair</em>. Everything they’ve sacrificed, everyone they’ve lost, it was supposed to be - not worth the end, but an understandable necessity for it. It wasn’t supposed to amount to - this.</p><p>He feels his resolve crumble every time he has to wipe blood off of Arthur’s face and body. He feels his trust waver every time he sees Gwen pause outside of Morgana’s old rooms, wringing her hands together as she attempts to push down the onslaught of memories she has of being in them, years ago, with their previous owner. </p><p>Destiny used to be all he had: the reason for his magic, something to look forward to, something <em> good </em> to achieve. Nowadays he wonders if any of it even had any basis at all. </p><p>[He also wonders at himself every time he has the thought, because while it does close his throat and squeeze his stomach with such a tight grip he thinks he might puke, he can never bring himself to regret it; to regret saving Arthur and having him and being able to <em> hold </em> him, just a little longer, every time.]</p><p>The thought of destiny’s falsehood poisons his mind again, and he has to grip the king's neck tighter, press his face more firmly into his shoulder, in order to keep himself together. Destiny has been something to find comfort in, something to hate, to curse; something to thank. He has poured all his emotions into the way he approaches destiny and to lose faith in it is—unbearable.</p><p>So he whispers Arthur’s name, and it’s a whimper, a prayer, an enchantment - and with Arthur holding him like this, he wonders if maybe magic really is just cheating God out of miracles - as if he’s begging, willing something to be true:</p><p><em> Please don’t stop, </em>he says, with their fingertips and cheeks pressed together. </p><p>
  <em> Please just - don’t stop. Do that again.  </em>
</p><p>[Arthur runs his hands down his back, clutches his waist.]</p><p>
  <em> There, everywhere. </em>
</p><p>[Arthur kisses his eyelids and cheeks, the corner of his jaw and the hollow of his neck.]</p><p><em> All the time </em> he says, with the tears that are prickling at the back of his eyes; with his hands, gripping Arthur’s arms and neck and face and running over Arthur’s chest, feeling the steady, comforting beat of his heart.</p><p><em> Keep touching me </em> he begs, in every way he can think while never uttering a word, because Merlin’s never really been good at confessions, but he just needs something to believe in.</p><p>[and Arthur has never let him down - he’s a whole undiscovered religion on his own.]</p><p>
  <b>summer (v)</b>
</p><p>They’re coming back from Ealdor—because while he won’t admit it, Merlin suspects that the small village is as close to a safe haven for Arthur as it could be—when he notices that they’re nowhere near the road back to Camelot. Now, he doesn’t have much of a sense for direction - as Arthur likes to point out, all the time and very loudly - but this is one road he thinks he would know blind (from one home to another), and for a second, he wonders.</p><p>[Uther died months ago, and Arthur’s coronation was only three days after. Merlin ached for his king—and he had, always, been <em> his </em> king—to take on such official responsibility so soon after—well. Everything.</p><p>But it was so hard to stand in the crowd looking at Arthur - straight-backed and achingly regal, haloed in gold - and not be completely overwhelmed with joy and excitement. He had chanted ‘long live the king’ gladly, the pride and love expanding his chest, straightening his back, and he had vowed to make sure that Arthur did. </p><p>A small, naive part of him had almost thought—hoped—that maybe this would be enough; that Uther’s death would finally bring Morgana enough peace so that she could leave them alone, but the thought had left before it could even fully form, because he knew better.] </p><p>Arthur insists that he hasn’t gone mad, and while Merlin doubts that very much, thank you, he protests more for banter’s sake, than anything else, and not for very long. </p><p>[It’s not very convincing, anyway, he thinks. Not with the way he can’t stop smiling at Arthur and laughing. He is lighter than he has been in months: Uther’s been gone so the threat hasn’t been as - imminent, and he’s surrounded by all of his best friends, but—well. Now he is the <em> king’s </em> manservant, and while Merlin’s chores aren’t much different - not at all in type, and little in quantity - Arthur’s duties are. He now has to balance everything he’d been doing as prince on top of what Uther had been doing before he had lost his senses. This afforded him very little time for personal affairs, unfortunately, meaning that, while he and Arthur <em> were </em> together all the time, they’d barely had any time alone. Just themselves.</p><p>So they - and by they, Merlin means himself, because Arthur’s always been duty bound, and thus had to be dragged - decided to get away, go to Ealdor for a few days; just them with no advisors or knights - Lancelot and Leon had been very reluctant about that - or responsibilities.</p><p>When they’d reached Hunith’s home, she had hugged Merlin and kissed Arthur’s hand, telling them - both - that she’d been waiting to see them again, and Arthur had blushed, smile widening in a way Merlin hadn’t seen since Morgana, and his shoulders had finally, <em> finally </em> lost their rigidness. </p><p>They’d been greeted with enthusiasm, and a lot of the villagers had even teased Arthur about whether he’d given up kinghood to join them in the fields; whether he thought he could handle it. Merlin had had to bite his fist to stop himself from laughing outright at Arthurs stunned face. He took it good naturedly, though, and was soon promising to not only help out—Merlin didn't know why <em> he </em> didn't get this response when <em> he </em> teased Arthur about not being able to do his chores—but also to give them a run for their money. </p><p>Unfortunately for himself, the king was useless with farm work. His hands were made to wield swords, not plow away at fields. But that really hadn’t mattered, because he was remembered as the prince who had saved that small town no one else would give a second look at. The prince who’d not only saved and fought alongside them, but who had also taught them how to defend themselves in the future. And so it didn’t matter how pitiful a sight Arthur made in the field, the villagers were quick to tease, teach, and reassure both him and his slowly growing skills. </p><p>Besides their failed attempts at farming (Merlin wasn’t above admitting that he had his own… limitations - thought no one had cooed at <em> him </em> for it) they’d done everything: gone swimming in a nearby river, walking through the woods, drinking with everyone during the summer solstice celebration, and they’d even helped Hunith cook. Soft banter had been sewn between every one of their conversations the entire time they were there: Merlin made fun of him for mixing up his herbs and Arthur laughed at him for falling into the river, right after drying off. This seemed to have been a major source of entertainment for everyone, and so they’d cranked it up. Arthur would sabotage his (admittedly, lackluster) efforts to plant some grain, he would mock Arthur’s snobbish ways. It was fun. </p><p>On the shortest night of the year, they’d gotten drunk, and everyone had bullied them into dancing. The king had more technical skill, but he’d also had more to drink, and so all they really did was stumble in circles, as they clung to the other, laughing. He vaguely remembers thinking <em> this is good </em> and <em> this is how I want you </em> and, perhaps more maliciously, <em> if I fall, I'm taking you with me.  </em></p><p>The next day, Arthur had been sheepish. Shy; maybe embarrassed. Never once had he let himself go so thoroughly in Camelot; be so open and carefree in front of so many people. They’d both woken up with headaches, and looked miserable enough to get his mum feeling more pitiful than reproachful. She’d offered to make them something special - after all, there was still plenty food left from last night - but Arthur, already flustered and ever the mannered royal that he never seemed to be around <em> Merlin, </em> would have none of it. So he’d insisted they’d help</p><p>(Merlin had squaked indignantly, staring at Arthurs profile.</p><p>“You—!”</p><p>“Yes, Merlin?”</p><p>“You can’t just <em> volunteer </em> me, you prat!”</p><p>“She's your mother, Merlin, show some respect, now.”</p><p>“I’ll show <em>you </em>respect,” he’d muttered, sulking as he walked towards his mum “bloody royal thinks he can <em>drag me—</em>as if he can't do anything <em>by</em> <em>himself</em>,”) </p><p>and Hunith, smiling fondly, couldn’t say no. And so that's how they'd spent the entire day: making food. Merlin kept poking Arthur every few minutes with the end of his wooden spoon, because Arthur was adorably focused, and every time he got poked, his eyebrows would scrunch before he turned to glare at Merlin, flick his ear, and get back to work. It was so utterly endearing that Merlin wanted to grab his arm, hug it to his chest, and rest his head on Arthurs shoulder; nuzzle his face into his neck and keep him that way forever.</p><p>For the entire two weeks that they were there, Arthur barely stopped smiling (because, of course Merlin would notice) and Merlin had gone to sleep every night with a deep breath and unabashed happiness filling his chest. They slept head-to-foot, and each night he could only look at Arthur, look up at the roof, and say the most genuine thanks he could, for this - for Arthur <em> like this</em>, once again, because Merlin had missed him so, so very much.]</p><p>They come across a clearing between clumps of trees, and tie their horses somewhere near the edges. Sitting down side by side, right in the middle of a sunny patch of grass, they overlook the scene in front of them. </p><p>The sun is setting (they’d both put off leaving as much as possible), and it paints everything in the most precious gold.</p><p>Merlin can’t help but think, as he looks over at Arthur, how much the king looks like he belongs: as beautiful as the nature around him, as bright as the sunlight encompassing him. As if he was meant for soft and lovely things all along (of course he was: how could he not be meant for something he already is?)</p><p>There's a familiar ache - one that reminds him of that summer day they spent in the river - from somewhere deep within that he’d only built up the courage to fully come to terms with days ago; a burning want that has always come with watching Arthur. It spreads through him like liquid fire in his veins, and shreds his heart to pieces.</p><p>He's always known that Arthur would one day break his heart, leave it bleeding and shattered beyond repair; he just always imagined it would be in more of an...active way. He'd imagined that Arthur might let him down, gently or otherwise. Or maybe he would marry someone else: a princess from far away, or one of the maids within the castle, never knowing the full extent of Merlin’s feeling’s for him. Those had always been the most plausible outcomes. And yet Merlin, for all his preparation and fear of the inevitable, never imagined it would go quite like this: with Arthur, laid back, more relaxed than he’s been in months, face tilted towards the sky and eyes closed. </p><p>[He never wore any sort of crown unless it was at a feast or for official business, and Merlin wonders if it’s because the prat knows he doesn’t actually need it; his hair shimmers as threads of sunlight weave through every strand and settled on his head, more of a crown than any metal could be.] </p><p>He is untouchable - the Once and Future King, destined to unite Albion. He is exquisite and unattainable and it is apparent now, more than ever, how impossible them, together—like that—is.</p><p>
  <b>winter (x)</b>
</p><p>His mind is being torn apart by the contradiction: trying everything in its power to memorize Arthur like this - alive and warm and solid - for the final time, and yet also doing everything it can to erase these wretched, last few days, in an effort to deny that this is happening at all. To deny that this is even close to the end.</p><p>Merlin knows that Arthur doesn’t believe he will make it</p><p>[knows, himself, the same.]</p><p>It’s obvious because of the way Arthur wont stop reaching to kiss Merlins shoulders and hands; how he wont stop looking at Merlin with this sad—longing—expression, as if they have only <em>just</em> allowed themselves to look at the other; as if they haven't been given enough time and won't be getting any more. It's obvious because Arthur’s only joking and teasing him after compliments and love declarations; because he took his gloves off after the first night, and now grips Merlin's hands tightly with no barrier; it's obvious in the way he rests his head against Merlin’s while he sleeps. </p><p>Obvious because only hours before—</p><p>Well.</p><p>Only hours before, Arthur takes his hand and presses his mothers ring to Merlins palm as tears line his eyes, threatening to spill, and Merlin can’t—</p><p>“<em>No. </em> No, Arthur—no,” he chokes, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to handle this feeling—this uncoiling of his stomach and clogging of his throat and shaking of his hands and feet and the fact that he can't <em> breathe </em>with the devastation and anxiety and fear and—</p><p>
  <em> [this wasn't supposed to happen.] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [How did this happen?] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [He’d only looked away for a second.] </em>
</p><p>“Take it—“</p><p>“I can't,” he shakes his head, and wills his voice to be strong, unrelenting “I won't.”</p><p>“Merlin, <em> please,” </em> and he’s so pale, so tired and desperate and in pain. How could Merlin deny him anything? So he puts the ring on, and it's a little too big on him, but it fit Arthur’s finger snuggly so it’s perfect, no matter what. He slides it on and almost sobs at the small, relieved smile on Arthurs lips because—it looks like—he’s accepting, giving up, and Merlin <em> can't— </em></p><p>They have to go by foot, because the horses escaped and Arthur’s running out of time and Morgana’s after them—but Arthur <em>can't. </em>He's too weak and in too much pain and it’s futile to even try. </p><p>They don’t make it more than fifty steps until the king's legs give out, and Merlin has to go behind him, chest to back, to ease the way down.</p><p>He holds Arthur, as they fall to the ground, and something about the position is familiar. </p><p>[Something about Arthur’s pale, cold face is familiar.]</p><p>The last thing Arthur asks for is to be held. </p><p>There are no promises, no confessions, no last minute truths. He just asks to be held.</p><p>The last time Arthur touches him, he caresses Merlin’s head as Merlin leans desperately into it, trying to pretend that the touch is still solid; still there. </p><p>The last thing he says to Arthur - his king, his best friend, <em> the only one who matters </em> - is a plea. It’s a desperate and futile and small <em> stay with me </em> that goes unanswered; it’s another prayer that is ignored.</p><p>Arthur dies between one of Merlin’s breaths, and the next. His eyes — blue and cloudy with only a slimmer of focus — flutter shut, and his chest is motionless under Merlin’s palms. His hands dont grip him, his body doesn’t lean, his mouth doesn't twitch and he doesn’t groan. </p><p>He’s just—gone.</p><p>Arthur dies and he’s never going to say Merlin's name again, or rub his eyes from lack of sleep, or complain to Merlin about his knights, his council, every dream gone wasted and fear he’s had to face. Arthur is never going to glare at him in annoyance, or smile when Merlin returns the favour. He's not going to roll his eyes, or level himself with people shorter than him asking for a favour. His voice and breath are never going to be soft or sharp or trembling ever again because he’s <em> dead. </em> He’s dead and Merlin will never be able to ask him to go to Ealdor again, or to stay in bed just a little longer, or to come <em> to </em> bed because Merlin’s cold and who warms him up better than Arthur does?</p><p>He's never going to kiss the corner of Merlin's jaw or cup Merlin’s face again. They are never going to kick each other's feet under the round table for entertainment while pretending no ones noticing, or smile knowingly at each other when no one else is looking ever again. Merlin is never going to smooth Arthurs hair down and kiss away his insecurities, and Arthur is never going to hold him together as everything else threatens to crush him to pieces. </p><p>Arthur dies and Merlin can do nothing but shake him, cup his face, press their foreheads together and then scream at the ground and sky. Scream <em> no </em> and whisper <em> please </em> and beg, beg, beg. </p><p>When Arthur dies, Morgana emerges from the forest only a few minutes too late to watch it happen, and Merlin snaps. He doesn't get up - because <em> he doesn't care, </em> all the better if he dies here, too, holding Arthur in his arms—but he knows, he thinks with disgust, that his irises must be glowing, searing gold <em> (Arthur used to trace around his eyes in the dark—used to say he’d never seen such pure and brilliant gold, as if his treasure vaults weren’t filled to the brim) </em>because Morgana looks scared. </p><p>Her hair and eyes are wild, her face is streaked with dirt, and Merlin - </p><p>[thinks of Morgana, fighting Uthers tyranny only to adopt his methods; thinks of Arthur, joining the war on magic only to be the one to end it; thinks of himself, looking down on Morgana for becoming so cold and merciless, only to feel nothing but ice in his own veins, and he wonders if everyone just becomes what they once fought, in the end, or if it’s just cynicism that ruins them.</p><p>Then he thinks of Gwen, and thinks that, no. It must just be them.]</p><p>- forgets to remember their history.</p><p>There is nothing she can do in the wake of his grief—not when he knows he can tear this wretched world apart; turn it into a ruin, a grave for itself. It's cruel, perhaps, but he <em> doesn’t care. </em> He's <em> never going to care again. </em> All of it—everything—is <em> worthless</em>, now, and he has no reservations treating it as such. </p><p>
  <em> [He hopes Arthur will forgive him, in the next life. Though he may not even deserve that.] </em>
</p><p>Merlin doesn't know what he’s doing, only that he needs this grief <em> out. </em>He doesn’t know how he’s meant to live without Arthur. He doesn’t want to, anyway. </p><p>So he fires and screams incoherent spells at her, again and again, needing to turn this rage into energy so that he’ll tire himself out—rid himself of whatevers trapping him in this prison of consciousness—needing her to <em>fight back</em>, do something, because maybe she’ll succeed in finally killing them all—he’s giving her a reason to<em> fight back.</em></p><p>But the assault ends—he’s panting but he’s still fully <em> aware </em>—and Morgana is mostly unharmed. He did more damage to the ground than to her, because he’s a failure and he still can’t get Arthur the justice he deserves, even now. </p><p>Morgana doesn’t look at him as she stands, trembling, and starts walking towards them. She stares at Arthur propped against his chest, ash grey and forever still, never letting her eyes wander. He thinks maybe she’ll start laughing, because of her victory, and a new rage begins building in his chest, but—</p><p>Maybe Morgana only sees the seven year old boy who fell asleep, face flushed from the crying she’d been comforting him from. Maybe she only sees the boy who grudgingly taught her and Gwen how to fight with a sword, and supported them when Uther tried to put a stop to it, saying that it was<em> better they knew how to defend themselves, just in case, </em> for when her and Gwen wanted some time away from Camelot, alone<em>. </em> Maybe, through Arthur, she sees a simpler time when she and Gwen would kiss and giggle every time he groaned good-naturedly; a time when her and Gwen slept on the same bed and held each other softly; when they would clasp hands as they walked through the forest and stole kisses. Maybe, through Arthur, she sees a better time, an earlier time, when nothing had been this miserable. </p><p>Maybe she sees the boy who cared for his father to a fault - despite all the pain Uther put him through - because he just wanted to be loved. The boy who followed Uther blindly, but listened whenever she made him sit down and see sense. Maybe she sees the boy who stood in front of her in the throne room not too long ago, straight backed with tears in his eyes and questions that - in retrospect - no one gave him the answers to. The boy who proved her wrong, who showed her that, no, perhaps he hadn’t made it clear how he feels about her kind; how he would not see her dead. The boy that changed, when given the time and education and facts. </p><p>Maybe Morgana only sees her brother, finally, as her brother, and not another obstacle in her way, because a moment after seeing his pale face and prone form, she falls to her knees, right in front of them, and weeps. </p><p>He watches her back bend as her cries echo louder than the thunder overhead and remembers every time Arthurs expression went cold—all that pain and anger and fear trapped behind a steel wall—when Morgana’s name was mentioned. He remembers every single day Gwen greeted them with tired, bruised eyes and made herself scarce until the next morning. He remembers every night during the last two months before they legalized magic that Arthur would open and close his mouth while gently rubbing a leather bracelet Morgana gave to him when they were young, as if wanting to ask, <em> do you think this will be enough? </em> but not wanting to jinx it. </p><p>Merlin watches her as Arthur’s hair rustles against his cheek in the wind. He presses his hand down and doesn’t feel the comforting, steady beat of Arthurs heart.</p><p>Merlin watches her weep and, for the first time in his life, feels no remorse, or pity, or anger.</p><p>He feels nothing.</p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! this is the longest thing ive ever written, and while i cant comment on the quality, quantity wise, I am SO PROUD OF MYSELF!!!! </p><p>n e ways, thanks again! I hope you liked it :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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